


The Night Before I Go to Sea

by howler32557038



Series: The Simple Life [2]
Category: Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, And he's not one of them, Belly Kink, Blow Jobs, Body Dysphoria, Bottom Bucky Barnes, Breakfast, Breasts, Clothed Sex, Coitus Interruptus, Consensual Kink, Erotica, Explicit Consent, Hair-pulling, Insecure Bucky Barnes, M/M, Male Lactation, Neck Kissing, Nipple Play, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Oral Sex, Pregnancy, Pregnancy Kink, Romance, Rough Kissing, Sam has named himself Team Dad even though there are several Dads on the Team, Steve Rogers is living every teenage boy's worst nightmare, Steve Rogers tries to hide an erection while wearing running shorts, Top Steve Rogers, the simple life, yet - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-11
Updated: 2020-02-11
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:14:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22669144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/howler32557038/pseuds/howler32557038
Summary: Steve and Bucky decide they deserve a last hurrah before their new roommate moves in.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Series: The Simple Life [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1031180
Comments: 21
Kudos: 198





	The Night Before I Go to Sea

"Should we just walk?"

"Nope."

"Buck, you look uncomfortable."

"I am uncomfortable."

"Well, we can slow down—"

"It’s fine.” There’s a sudden bite of impatience in Bucky’s voice. “I'm always uncomfortable."

Steve grins and shakes his head. He can’t get enough of this guy; somehow he adores Bucky most when he's in a bad mood. Bucky’s at his best when he's put upon and world-weary, when a hundred little stressors dig at him; then, out comes that wry half-smile and those snippy, dry complaints muttered under his breath.

Steve knows it's wrong of him to enjoy any part of Bucky's discomfort, but there's something so funny, so sweet and familiar about the tired frown on his face and his sour tone. It reminds Steve of the hundreds of soft, early morning diatribes he heard out of him before the war, as he dressed for work in the dark and prepared for another day of poverty and bad New York weather. He certainly wishes Bucky had no reason to complain now, but Bucky has always complained, ever since they were kids. He's made an art of it. He and his complaints are inseparable.

And Steve grudgingly enjoys it, because even through all the ceaseless bitching, Bucky has never, ever been a quitter. He's cursed, just like Steve is, with stubbornness and reckless persistence, but there is _no_ trace of Steve's bottomless enthusiasm. Bucky loudly, openly hates all things unpleasant and difficult, and he does it all anyway. Steve loves that.

"Fucking — _pants,_ " Bucky hisses softly, pulling them up as he runs, and Steve's grin broadens.

If Steve had all of this to do over again, he'd learn to sew and tailor or make all Bucky's clothes. Maternity-wear is overpriced, too feminine for Bucky's comfort, too big for his comparatively narrow hips and too short for his muscular legs. He has worn nothing but ill-fitting athletic clothes for three months, and even those are now long outgrown. For the past two weeks, he’s been stuck in the largest sizes of Stark Industries sweatpants and sweatshirts Tony could find for him.

Bucky had stopped running the perimeter of the Facility six weeks ago; as May approached, Banner advised less strenuous physical activity to avoid premature labor. Early on the morning of May 25th, their due date, Bucky had called both Cho and Banner and woken them to request permission to return to regular exercise. They told him no weight-lifting, no contact-sports, and no guns, knives, arrows, or explosives. He had grumbled something like, "They think I'm fuckin' dumb? What am I gonna — fucking _rugby_? Shoot some clay pigeons? Jesus," as he struggled harrowingly into a pair of running shoes, and then he was out the door. By the time Steve had clambered out of bed, dressed, put on his own running shoes with no socks, and taken the elevator six floors down, Bucky was a hundred yards away from the Facility.

That was three days ago. Steve thinks they’ve been on ten runs since then. What Bucky lacks in speed, he seems intent to make up for in sheer tenacity.

Steve is beginning to wonder if he should gently suggest a shortcut through the Facility’s main building. If they hold their current course, running the perimeter of the campus, they’re still half a mile from the residential wing’s entrance. And Bucky isn’t moving too fast: he has to cradle his stomach precariously every time they’re forced to run on the lawn instead of the smooth concrete; his grey shirt is soaked with sweat, and he’s breathing harder than usual, even at this gentle pace. As impatient as Steve is with his running partners and as anxious as he is about Bucky overworking himself, he admires him for struggling on so valiantly.

Their final half-mile stretch takes another eight minutes. Bucky doesn’t have the energy to make any more major complaints, but Steve listens sympathetically to all his whispers and sighs of _fuck_ and _Jesus Christ._

As persistent as Bucky is, he doesn’t make it to the door. He collapses on a bench within sight of the residential wing’s entrance, winded and frustrated with himself.

“About two-hundred more yards…” Steve remarks casually, squinting toward the door like the sidewalk is a deadly stretch of no man’s land. “Should I throw you over my shoulder and run you in?” he smirks, because sometimes he can’t help himself.

“Probably couldn’t lift me.”

“Oh, I can lift you.”

“Fucking don’t.”

“Alright. I’m gonna let you sit there for two minutes, and then I’m carrying your ass in. I’m too hungry for you to take a nap out here.”

“My stomach’s in my lungs,” Bucky sighs, rubbing at his solar plexus and rib-cage. “I can’t even think about eating, man.”

“Guess what I want?” Steve grins.

“Breakfast.”

“Seriously? I’m that predictable?”

“You wanted eggs this morning.”

“Oh, yeah. Didn’t get those, did I?”

“I’m sorry. I wasn’t ready to smell eggs yet.”

“We gotta get that baby out of you,” Steve groans, shaking his head. “You’re not going to make it the rest of the week. You know he’ll be here before we know it, Buck.”

“Pretty sure that’s what you said last Sunday.”

Steve perches on the corner of the bench, pressing his leg against Bucky’s because Bucky hasn’t left much of the bench to share. “Let’s do something nice tonight. Little romantic dinner or something. Might be our last date for a while.”

“I don’t think we have any romantic food,” Bucky remarks dryly, then shuts his eyes and lets his head fall listlessly back. He will end up taking a nap right here if Steve doesn’t keep on pestering him: Bucky has always had a talent for sleeping anywhere, though lately, he can sleep anywhere except lying down in their bed.

“Well, the food doesn’t have to be romantic,” he shrugs nonchalantly, even as he risks a coy smile in Bucky’s direction. “It’s what you do after the food.”

Bucky raises his head and fixes Steve with a cautious, pointed stare. “Uh-huh. Like what?”

Bucky’s skeptical tone makes Steve throw the whole conversation in reverse, fast. “Sorry. That’s probably the last thing on your mind. I can behave,” he laughs, trying to keep it from sounding tense or miserable.

“What?”

“What?”

“What’s the last thing on my mind?”

Steve stutters just a little. “Sex.”

“You want to have sex? With me?” Bucky grimaces. He looks so surprised and put-off by that suggestion — like it’s the first time Steve has ever broached the subject. And really, after a three month spell of _nothing,_ it might as well _be_ the first time. The embarrassment of a flat rejection hasn’t hit Steve this hard since he was fifteen years old. “Really, Steve? Now?”

“I mean, yes, _always —_ but I know you don’t — I’m sorry I brought it up. Seriously, I didn’t mean to pressure—”

“I want to.”

“—you. What?”

Bucky ducks his head, suddenly tight-lipped and nervous. “I _do_ want to.”

Steve waits. “But?”

“But I—” Bucky laughs in the middle of his next word, then gathers his courage once again. “Listen, frankly, I don’t want you to see me naked.”

Steve lets the birds in the nearby trees do all the talking for a while. He can’t decide what to say to that, except maybe _Fuck you, gimme a break._ And that’s probably not what Bucky needs to hear. He attempts a gentle, loving smile, even though he’s thinking about yelling. “Come on. Sugar, are you kidding me?”

“Steve, I look — hell. I don’t know.”

“Gorgeous.”

“Weird. Wrong.”

“I don’t think you’ve ever looked better.”

“Ugly.”

“Aw, fuck you. Gimme a break,” Steve finally shouts.

“I’m serious. I know, it doesn’t matter. I’m fine. I’m healthy. Just bothers me anyway.”

“What, your belly?”

Bucky remains tellingly silent.

“And your chest.”

“And my feet.”

“Okay, those don’t look so great.”

“My shoes don’t even fit,” Bucky groans, then straightens out his knee and tries in vain to see one. “Unbelievable.”

But Steve is fighting his own personal war and doesn’t notice Bucky’s struggle. He drums his fingers on the back of the bench and scratches at the beginnings of stubble on his cheek, thinking.

If he phrases this poorly, Bucky will never let him live it down, and if he phrases this _very_ poorly, he could injure the trust and security they’ve so recently rebuilt. Best case scenario, he’s going to humiliate himself. “Hey, uh — can I tell you something?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Alright.” He pauses, breath drawn to tell him, but all that comes out of his mouth is, “Please don’t be mad at me.”

_Oh, yeah, Steve, you’re doing a bang-up fuckin’ job. Just beautiful. Confident and sexy. Dumbass._

“Steve, just tell me.”

He takes a deep breath and stares out toward the treeline, trying to work up enough gumption to tell a secret he really shouldn’t have kept. “Bucky — I like you _more_ now. More than I’ve ever liked you.”

Bucky’s expression remains neutral for a few seconds until finally, he rewards Steve with a soft smile. Unfortunately, the smile is followed by an infuriatingly friendly and impersonal clap on the shoulder. “I like you too, Steve.”

_He’s just playing dumb to fuck with me, isn’t he? Fuck it, I’m laying it all out on the table. He’s an adult. He can deal with it._

“I mean it. I think I’m seriously more attracted to you,” Steve says bluntly, loud enough that anyone passing too close to their bench could easily overhear. “I like the way you look. I love it. You’re — I’ve never seen anybody else like you. You’re a man — you’re a _fuckin’ gorgeous_ man. And then, on top of that—you—you’re — and I mean, is it too much to say that fertility is kind of _sexy?”_ he laughs aloud. He’d run out of words long before he’d run out of things to say. “No! That’s not weird,” he reassures himself. “Fertility is insanely sexy, and you look absolutely amazing. And you know the part I really like?” he grins, leaning in conspiratorially. “I _did_ that to you. We did that.”

“We did that,” Bucky agrees, once Steve corrects himself. He looks like he’s fighting back laughter over Steve’s sudden outpouring of words, but Steve doesn’t allow himself to be deterred.

“And listen, I love you in all the deep, romantic ways. I wake up every day thinking this is the most I’ve ever loved you and then I love you more by the time we go to bed. But I need you to understand that, notwithstanding how much I love you, I really, _really_ want to fuck you.”

Steve can feel how red his cheeks and throat are. His ears are on fire, his hands and feet are cold, and he’s broken a sweat for the first time on their run. But he’s determined to hold his ground until Bucky either speaks or coldcocks him.

“You like me better with tits?” Bucky asks abruptly. He _almost_ keeps a straight face.

“Maybe,” Steve challenges.

“Maybe?”

“Well, I don’t _know,_ we haven’t fucked since you got ‘em.”

Bucky smiles through a grimace and nods. “Yeah, well. This has been a lot to get used to.” He meditates on that statement for a few seconds. Suddenly, he looks up, fixes his expression, and studies Steve for a long moment until his face splits into a grin. “Aw, Steve, I’m sorry. Look at you, no sex for three—”

“Almost four.”

“—months, and you’ve about lost your fucking mind.”

Steve tips his head thoughtfully, then nods in concession. “Yep. Yeah, I’m a little pent up, Buck.”

Bucky stares him down for a while longer, almost like he’s trying to decide if Steve is exaggerating his enthusiasm or not. Thankfully, Bucky has a good eye for honesty — he’ll be able to see that Steve’s serious. “We should probably continue this conversation—”

“Inside.”

“Inside, yeah.”

Bucky groans as Steve hauls him up off the bench. Steve glances back down their running path and back toward the Facility’s doors, searching for stray staff members, then cranes his neck forward to kiss Bucky on the mouth, right there on the Facility’s lawn. And the sun’s not even down.

Once they enter the building, Bucky pulls him toward the stairs and he pulls Bucky toward the elevator until he wins the silent argument.

The moment the doors shut, Bucky gasps; his eyes widen and his spine goes straight. He says nothing, but Steve can see that he's uncomfortable.

“You sit on a tack? You alright?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Bucky says slowly, gradually relaxing against the wall. He shifts his feet outward awkwardly, frowning. “He’s just - uh, riding low.”

“How _low?”_

“Yeah, I feel like if I sneezed--”

“So don’t sneeze.”

Bucky smiles playfully and draws in a breath like he might, but then his face twists with disbelief as something suddenly occurs to him. “Steve, you’ve _always_ thought tits are weird.”

“I do not.”

“Every time I’ve ever pointed out a girl with great tits you act like I’m trying to feed you rat poison--”

“Well, I’m queer--”

“Queers don’t like tits.”

“Not on a _woman._ ”

The elevator doors open on their floor. Tony, Bruce, Thor, and Rhodes, are in the shared kitchen engaged in a loud discussion; despite their presence, Bucky gets the last, quiet word of their own debate: “Steve, that’s where they _go."_

“Boys. How are we?” Tony says without turning to confirm their identities.

“Oh, we’re great, Tony,” Bucky says, lying for both of them.

“What’re all you A-Levels doing standing around?” Steve asks sternly. He’s just teasing - he’s the one who hasn’t clocked in since February.

“Eating hummus,” Tony answers, catty even through a mouthful of bread as he demonstrates. “Slow night, what do you want? And it’s Bruce-hummus, so it’s very delicious. For hummus.”

Thor has spent most of his latest stay on Earth in the main building with Dr. Selvig and he hasn’t seen much of Bucky, so he’s obliged to walk up and lay his searching hands directly on Bucky’s stomach without so much as a word of warning.

Steve watches Bucky freeze with surprise then turn toward him and make a face, indicating that he’s not sure what to do.

“Well, look at you, friend,” Thor smiles. “Not long now.”

“We’re hoping - sometime in the next week,” Bucky confirms uncomfortably, resigning himself to being touched. At least he seems to be getting used to Thor - it had been a shock for him to find that the alien God of Thunder _Avenger_ acted more like a friendly stray dog who visited the compound occasionally.

“We were hoping for sometime _last_ week,” Bruce clarifies.

Rhodes clears his throat. “Thor, dude, personal space, please.”

Thor’s hands move a little lower, fingers splayed, just before he steps away. He clasps them and rubs his palms together rather nervously. “Well, Barnes and I are friends, so he doesn’t mind.” Thor claps Bucky on the shoulder, presumably to show how familiar they are. “Eat something,” he says quietly, speaking only to Steve and Bucky, now. “And rest.”

“Yeah, we’ll be sure to do that,” Bucky replies obediently, but Steve and Thor can both see that it’s just a platitude. Thor looks to Steve instead.

Steve gives him a quick nod. He knows Thor understands and does things none of them can explain, and he knows better than to ignore his advice. Sounds like Lincoln will be here in a day or two at the most. They should eat something and rest.

“You’re walking like you might call me tonight,” Bruce calls out.

“Not likely,” Bucky says thoughtfully. “Not yet, anyway.”

Thor subtly shakes his head, still holding Steve’s gaze.

“We’re going to turn in early,” Steve announces abruptly.

“Yeah, we’re beat.”

“Mm-hm,” Tony smiles, waving. “Be safe.” 

Steve doesn’t stick around to see if Tony has any other simpering comments to make. He makes for the door to his quarters with no further delay and motions for Bucky to follow him. Unfortunately, there’s no escaping _Bucky’s_ comments, and those tend to be even more needling and self-satisfied than Tony’s.

“The running shorts aren’t working for you, pal,” he says quietly as Steve fumbles impatiently with the door to their quarters.

“Yeah, I know,” he bites out, opens the door, and ushers Bucky inside just as Bucky starts in on him again.

“Can’t believe you walked in there with a hard-on.”

“Quit it, Buck.”

Bucky has no intention of doing that, apparently. He gives Steve a light slap on the groin with his left hand as Steve squeezes past him to put his keys and wallet away. “I didn’t put that there, I’m just pointing it out.”

“I got a little warm outside, alright?” Steve laughs, fleeing to the kitchen and rummaging hungrily through their cabinets and refrigerator.

Fuck Bucky. He’s not changing into jeans. Bucky’s had that hard-on inside him. He can shut his mouth and stare at it while Steve cooks.

“What are you making?”

Steve stares at his kitchen full of ingredients, wishing there was _food._ “What do you want me to make?”

“Breakfast,” Bucky groans dramatically. “I’ll make you scrambled eggs.”

“Aw,” Steve groans back, grinning. “What a good sport.”

“I really am.”

Steve takes out their egg-box. They buy them sixty at a time.

“Never seen anybody that excited for scrambled eggs,” Bucky says flatly, staring at Steve’s crotch just like Steve knew he would.

“You know,” he replies, keeping his tone equally business-like, “I’d threaten to scramble _your_ eggs...but I already did.”

“Dumb comeback, Steve.”

“Yeah, I’m gonna come on your dumb back.”

“ _What?"_ Bucky chokes out. "Just make grits.”

“Sure.”

“Don’t burn your dick.”

“Don’t ask why your grits are creamy.”

“Steve, fuck, _gross."_

The conversation technically ends there, but Steve giggles after a few minutes of working silently at the stove.

“You laughing at your own joke?”

“Yeah. The one about coming on your back was pretty good.”

“You’re exhausting.”

They both set to work on the food in amicable silence after that. The kitchen is noisy enough with grits bubbling in a pot, frying bacon, and the scrape of Bucky’s fork against a cast iron skillet as he stirs unmeasured handfuls of cheddar into the scrambled eggs.

Steve takes a long look at him, watching as he adds another pat of butter to the grits while Steve’s drying his hands off on the dishtowel and unable to stop him. Bucky sees that he’s been caught and grins.

“God. I can hardly stand to look at you. You’re perfect.”

Bucky’s tongue darts out to wet his lips as his eyes flicker back below Steve’s waistline. “Looks like you’re standing just fine.”

Steve _considers_ feeling self-conscious, but ultimately decides it would waste their precious time. He comes to press himself unapologetically against Bucky’s back as he cooks, kneading the muscles along his spine and canting his own hips forward. Their running clothes don’t completely hide the softness or warmth of Bucky’s skin.

“Well,” Bucky says, voice low and tempered with a smile. “Guess I know you weren’t bullshitting me.”

“I _never_ bullshit you, Buck.”

“Ha.”

He rubs his hands rabidly over Bucky’s hips, jostling him playfully. “Move over, I’ve gotta get that bacon.”

“You really want to have sex with me?” Bucky asks abruptly.

“Are we still on this?” Steve demands incredulously, then sets down the fork he’d been using to turn the bacon and crosses his arms stubbornly. “No, it’s fine, Buck, let’s throw all this in the garbage and fuck.”

“Steve--”

“No, I’m not even hungry. Let’s fuck.”

The bacon is now overcooking for the sake of Steve’s theatrics. Holding back laughter, Bucky reaches right into the popping grease and gently turns the remainder with the fingers of his left hand. “I meant _tonight_.”

“Bruce said it was fine. Bruce said it _might_ help--”

Bucky waves a hand in Steve’s face to shut him up. He had been _deeply_ embarrassed when Bruce had suggested they try sex or nipple stimulation to gently induce labor. He’d let Steve do the rest of the talking at their last appointment after Bruce brought that up. Steve had taken notes on the final details of their delivery plan. Bucky was only interested in getting dressed as quickly as possible.

“I don’t even know how we’d do it.”

“We’ll figure it out.”

“And I look so fuckin’ _weird--”_

“Come on, man! Shit!”

At ten after seven in the evening, Steve and Bucky sit down to breakfast. Except only Bucky bothers to sit, and he sits at the kitchen island - this dinner date is a little less formal than the first one they’d shared in Steve’s quarters. Tonight, to save themselves from washing more dishes, they eat their grits with butter and brown sugar right out of the pot and share the spoon Steve used to stir them. The bacon is given the dignity of a few paper towels. The eggs are meticulously divided within the skillet - Bucky puts ketchup on his now, apparently, and Steve wants nothing to do with it.

“Did you finish washing the rest of his clothes?” Bucky asks quietly as they eat.

“Yeah. Folded them. Put them away.” Steve laughs through a mouthful of bacon and rolls his eyes. “Cried a little.”

“His room looks great.”

“That’s because we finished it two weeks ago. He gave us all this extra time to decorate.”

Bucky glances at Steve’s brown leather portfolio on the island by his elbow. Usually, Steve uses it for work, but for now, it’s full of well-organized notes and detailed instructions, test results, warnings, and reminders. There are also six months worth of printed ultrasound images.

“What if something’s wrong? What if labor’s just...not gonna start on its own?”

Steve swallows his food, noticing that it suddenly doesn’t taste as flavorful. “I’m sorry to ask, but do you think - do you remember if Hydra might have done something to induce you every time?”

Thankfully, Bucky doesn’t flinch at that word today. He thinks. “Maybe. Sometimes. But I - some started on their own. At least one; it started right after they’d done their last exam for the day. Everybody was going home. I don’t think anyone figured out I was in labor until morning.”

Steve sets his jaw resolutely because Bucky hates it when Steve shudders and frowns over what had happened to him. He’s trying to do better, because Bucky needs to be able to talk about this, and comforting Steve’s worries shouldn’t be the price he pays to process those events. “Bruce is keeping an eye on him, Buck. He would have induced you already if Lincoln was in trouble, but he said it’s a last resort. We’re doing everything we should be - we’ll just keep jogging and walking and resting, and then, hopefully…” Steve punctuates the end of his sentence with a shaky, nervous sigh and a frantic, aimless look around the apartment, just to make sure all the outlets are covered.

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees.

“Let’s not worry about it.” Steve feels like a hypocrite the second the words leave his mouth. “Watched pot.”

“I can’t _not_ worry about it.” Bucky shakes his head and pushes Steve’s portfolio to the other end of the counter, where it can’t loom so menacingly over him. “It’s all I can think about. It’s taken over my life.”

“You need a hobby.”

“I have a hobby,” Bucky insists, rising and collecting a few of the dishes they’ve cleared and taking them to the sink. “I hang out with Tony, don’t I? I can repair Iron Legion units now; we just spent a month rebuilding a Quinjet engine.”

“You need a _quieter_ hobby. You not gonna eat any more?”

“Can’t.”

“Ouch. Must be crowded in there.”

“You got no idea.”

They assume their usual after-meal activities naturally: Bucky starts the dishes and Steve eats the remainder of the food as he tidies the rest of the kitchen, passing pots, pans, and plates to the sink as he clears them.

Ten minutes later, Steve has scrubbed the counters and the stove, swept, and mopped, but Bucky is still working at the stubborn char on a baking dish. He’s leaned precariously over the sink with his weight in his left leg. His right hip tilts upward invitingly, so Steve lays a tentative hand there. Bucky presses toward him, just enough for Steve to know the touch is welcome.

“Why don’t you leave it, Buck?”

“I let it soak all day already--”

“Leave some dishes in the sink for once, baby, it’s fine.” Steve’s words are soft and slurred as he kisses a line from the nape of Bucky’s neck down to the first vibranium plate on his shoulder. He leans his hands on the counter, trapping Bucky against him until he gives into the temptation. “No more cleaning. Come on, let’s go to bed early.”

“I’ve just gotta--”

“God, the way you clean, I’d almost think you’d done a little KP duty--”

“No,” Bucky smirks, leaning back against Steve’s chest even as he stubbornly scrubs at the last dirty edge of the pan. “I was too good for that.”

“A ninety-day wonder.”

“Oh, come on, that’s not why,” Bucky says loudly, frowning with the deep offense. He sets the clean pan in the drainer and turns his body within the circle of Steve’s arms until they’re nose to nose. “ _Actually,_ I was the best sniper they could find, so I was a little busy,” he shrugs. There’s a relaxed, smug grin on his lips, but there’s tension building throughout his body. Steve can feel that same crackle of static in the air that he usually only feels just before a fight erupts in the field. He likes it. “Stayed tied up with special assignments. No time for KP duty,” he reminds Steve loftily.

Steve leans his forehead against Bucky’s, presses cheek to cheek with him, then kisses his way back to an earlobe. “You know, I got a few special assignments myself.”

“You _made up_ special assignments for yourself.”

“Yeah, and lucky for you I sent myself to Kreischberg.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Oh, you _better_ remember that.”

Bucky tips his head back and lets Steve kiss the column of his throat all he wants. “I remember how good you fucked me that night.”

“No, that was a day later - marched for twenty hours before we set up camp.”

“In a trench, right? Old one from the Great War.”

“With an underground shelter. There were poppies growing right out of the trench walls.”

“And two twenty-five year old corpses in the shelter. I remember. It was fuckin’ horrific.”

“You didn’t mind the privacy, though--”

“Yeah.” Steve feels Bucky’s laughter just beneath his warm skin. It tickles his lips as he kisses down to his collarbone. “It wasn’t the worst place to fuck. Once we buried the Krauts.”

Steve chuckles. “And you still wanted to have sex with me -- even though I was a little bigger.” 

Bucky wraps his arms around Steve’s head and neck, pulling him into a lazy, ungentle hug. “Don’t fucking compare _that_ to what I’m dealing with--”

“I don’t know, I got a pretty nice rack out of the deal.”

“And you _could_ _not_ stop touching them.”

“You couldn’t either.”

As if to remind himself, Bucky slides his hands - still wet - over the front of Steve’s t-shirt. He grips Steve’s sides and runs his thumbs indelicately over his chest. “Jesus,” he breathes.

“Keep that up and I’m gonna fuck you right here in the kitchen--”

Bucky’s voice is low and dark, warm against Steve’s temple. “Do it,” he dares him.

Two obnoxiously loud knocks, followed by the sound of the door opening without invitation a moment later. _Sam._ His head is poked inside their apartment before Steve can even put an inch of space between himself and Bucky. Bucky is startled - his hands snap back to his sides. Steve doesn’t even bother. It’s too late to act innocent about this.

“You guys good?” Sam asks, as if they might have desperately needed him in the two hours since they last saw him, or _maybe_ something came up since Steve texted him back ten minutes ago.

Steve stands up slowly, letting it _be_ obvious that Sam has walked in on something important. Sam’s eyebrows rise a centimeter as he locks eyes with Steve and inclines his head curiously. “Yeah, Sam, we’re good.”

“Alright,” Sam nods stiffly. He gives Steve a questioning frown and makes a lewd hand gesture.

Steve has to hold back an amazed smile. He nods in affirmation.

Sam silently mouths his next question, along with a second, vague gesture toward his stomach: _Is he allowed?_

“Buddy, can I get back to this?” Steve smiles, as sweetly as he can.

“Yeah, I was just seeing if he was alright,” Sam says defensively. “Sharon saw him outside and told me to check if he was dead.”

“Shut my door, Sam.”

“Tell her thanks,” Bucky replies softly.

Sam looks appeased by the show of gratitude. He gives them a long stare as he makes his needlessly slow exit, like a father leaving his teenage daughter alone with a boy. Steve keeps his eyes fixed on the ceiling as he waits patiently for the door to shut completely.

“Like living in a goddamn dorm,” Steve laughs, finally turning back to Bucky. Thankfully, he’s still leaning against the counter and he hasn’t fled yet. “You okay? You out of the mood now?”

Bucky thinks for a moment, then looks a little surprised by what he discovers. “No, I’m way more in the mood, actually.”

Steve’s jaw about drops with joy. “What happened?”

“I don’t know.” Bucky shrugs with one shoulder, looking a little coy. “You got a little territorial back there, Steve. That was sharp...nice.” As hungry as his freshly-kissed mouth looks, Bucky’s eyes are nostalgic - amid his basic attraction, there’s a glimmer of hard-won respect for a fellow young Brooklynite. “Very _Captain America_.”

“Sometimes I think you like Captain America more than you like me.”

“ _Well_ , I don’t _know,_ ” Bucky says, trying his best impression of Steve’s remarks made outside on their bench. “You haven’t let me _fuck_ you while you wear the suit.”

“See,” Steve grins, reaching out to slap Bucky’s hip. “You like weird shit, too.”

“Half of America wants to fuck you in that suit and like, three percent of America wants to fuck a pregnant man who’s missing an arm - I’m not the weird one, Steve.”

“Where’d you come up with three percent?”

“There’s gotta be some, right? On the internet or Craigslist or something?”

“Oh, so you’re ‘normal’ and I’m a Craigslist pervert,” Steve smiles. “Well, I’ll make you a deal: you have sex with me tonight with _no clothes_ and I will sneak a suit out of the hangar for you. Deal?”

“Which suit?”

“Which suit you want?”

“Did you give the original back to the Smithsonian?”

“No, James, it was full of bullet-holes, so they said I could keep it.”

Bucky hangs his head and purses his lips. “Yeah, whichever’s convenient, then.”

“You know what’s funny is that I don’t usually scar, but these exit wounds on my stomach just won’t seem to--”

“Oh, wait a minute, this is gonna be fun,” Bucky grins, suddenly standing up straight and taking Steve by the shoulder. “If I’m pregnant I can push you around all I want and you can’t hit me.” He tests that theory by shoving Steve - without warning and _not_ gently.

Steve sinks his feet into the floor and refuses to budge. Bucky’ll have to hit a little harder.

Bucky takes a step forward like he intends to do just that, but instead, he stops, shoulder to shoulder with Steve, and tilts his head. Steve meets the kiss readily, but his teeth knock hard against Bucky’s lip when a hand suddenly dips past the waistband of his running shorts and wraps around his cock. The fingers of Bucky’s right-hand are still warm from washing dishes. Suddenly, Steve’s face is too hot and his ears are ringing too loudly to resist as Bucky pushes him back against the refrigerator. For all the force of Bucky’s left arm as it presses Steve into the chrome door, he keeps his strokes light, playful, and gentle in dizzying contrast.

Bucky allows Steve to enjoy all of this for another thirty seconds, then lets his head fall to Steve’s shoulder. He laughs at himself, gripping Steve’s cock almost apologetically. “I really want to blow you,” he sighs. “But my knees hurt.”

Steve grins dazedly. “Bedroom?”

“Mm.”

**Author's Note:**

> More on the way soon! I'm very busy right now due to the 2020 theater season starting very soon, but I still carve out an hour a day to write! It doesn't feel like long enough to sink my teeth back into Jump the Picket Fence (that's my weekend project) so have this unedited pile of fluff instead!
> 
> Askbox is always open on Tumblr! (howler32557038.tumblr.com)
> 
> Big Love! <3  
> \--Zack J


End file.
